You look familiar, have we met before?
by Yggdrasil'sRoots
Summary: When Thorin scouts the area he is considering using for the meeting in six months time, he doesn't expect to find armed enemies awaiting him. Luckily for him, Bilbo Baggins has a big heart. Bagginshield.
1. Chapter 1

_**This is a fic that Vampgurl402 requested, and I've been having trouble hashing it out, but now I know what I'm doing, I should update it fairly regularly, though not on any definite schedule, because I suck. **_

_**So anyway, this is for you doll!**_

_**Disclaimer: i don't own the Hobbit. **_

He lay gasping, face pressed into the dirt, and tried to ignore the pain in his side desperately.

A sword clanged next to his face and he rolled out of its path, reluctantly heaving himself upright and staggering away.

He hated being lost.

With no idea(nor indeed, care) of where he was going, he chose a random direction and wobbled as fast as he could in it, across fields and tiny, idyllic bridges, half unsure whether they would hold his weight in the slightest.

He ended up in a small hamlet, round doors interspersing the distance before him, in varying bright colours.

He chose the nearest door, a charming green one. With a beautifully tended garden and a small bench where Thorin envisioned himself smoking a pipe one day, it was easy to imagine he had come here for a holiday, rather than to scout the area.

And indeed, get lost not once, but twice, in the same stretch of land.

He was a king. Kings did not _get lost. _

Unless severely injured first, of course. Then it was excusable.

Shifting to lessen the weight on his injured leg, he leaned against the fence indecisively. He was a king, and kings were independent, proud creatures, but on the other hand, he did require aid rather badly.

So he made the decision, and unhooked the gate, swinging it open, and glanced behind him nervously for the enemy. The road behind him was vacant, though he imagined it would not stay that way for long.

Limping heavily down the path, he prepared himself to make his case, dizziness taking him and forcing him to stumble on a stone. He knocked on the beautiful door, wincing as a scrape on his knuckles made contact with the wood, and waited for it to swing open.

He heard irritated muttering in a higher pitched, clearly vexed voice, moving closer to the door. He had obviously irked the inhabitant, though he wished he had no cause to do so. But his leg was bleeding rather badly, and he could see bone when he examined the wound. Head spinning, he awaited the person's angry tirade.

The door swung open to reveal a small person, barely up to Thorin's shoulder, with curly hair and bare feet.

"Good evening." He managed to say, before keeling over at one Bilbo Baggins' rather large, hairy feet.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Posting two chapters at the same time seems to fit this story better, considering their content. Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: i don't own the Hobbit. **_

One Bilbo Baggins was just settling in for a nap after supper, a comfortable affair involving fish, potatoes, and no guests. For a well to do hobbit, this was most unusual, as many of the race loved guests, threw lavish parties, all to entertain, and show off to their neighbours. But Bilbo Baggins had always been a little of an oddity, which he attributed to his Tookish side. So he had eaten a solitary, pleasant meal, and was just pulling a blanket (that he had knitted himself) over himself, to doze off, when he heard a knock at the door.

"Heavens above, what does a respectable hobbit have to do to get a little rest in these parts?" He muttered, slipping down from his plushy armchair and pulling on a robe, tying it shut and grumbling as he made his way to his front door.

"If it is that ghastly Lucretia again, after my silver, I shall be most unravelled! Nasty, brash, rude woman, I don't see how we can possibly be blood relations." As the little hobbit pattered past his umbrella stand, he started muttering again.

"And if it is Meriadoc Brandybuck and that terror, Peregrin Took, playing silly buggers, I shall take them by the ears and drag them back to their parents with the largest amount of glee!"

Our little hobbit had, by now, rather worked himself up into a boil, so he yanked open his front door with strong intentions of being quite unpleasant, and was immeasurably puzzled when the words did not come.

A tall, stocky figure stood before him_. A dwarf, at his best guess,_ a small part of Bilbo's stunned mind said to him, _or else a very short man. _

"Good evening." Said the maybe-a-dwarf, shakily and pale as he leaned against the doorframe, and promptly collapsed in his hallway.

"What?" Said Bilbo.


	3. Chapter 3

_**More! Because inspiration! **_

_**Disclaimer: I still don't own the Hobbit. Duh. **_

_"Good evening." Said the maybe-a-dwarf, shakily and pale as he leaned against the doorframe, and promptly collapsed in his hallway. _

_"What?" Said Bilbo. _

"What?"

He stares in shock (and a healthy amount of horror) at the probably-a-dwarf that lay unconscious in his hallway.

"Why." He asks the universe plaintively. Then he sets about looking the he-looks-like-a-dwarf over, and checking him for wounds.

A nasty gash on his thigh, and a bump on the head.

Bilbo is sure he can see bone.

He swallows thickly, but puts on his big boy pants, and fetches some thread, a candle and a needle. After a moments thought, he finds scissors in his kitchen drawer, and an old, clean shirt, that he can tear up for bandages.

He plops himself down by the bleeding body (and there is blood all over his hallway, he is sure it will stain the floorboards) and tries to roll him over. Being a foot or so taller, and thick with muscle, the really-he-must-be-a-dwarf is difficult for the little hobbit to move, but he perseveres, and rolls him over. He carefully snips away the cloth around the wound, and cringes as the injury is shown in full light.

Four inches or so across, it is deep. Down to the bone deep. He is going to have to sew it shut, and carefully. He flicks the come-on-he-has-to-be-a-dwarf in the head, trying to figure out how unconscious he is. He doesn't even move, and Bilbo holds the needle in the flame, then lets it cool, and threads it neatly. Then, he pushes his fears, doubts, and squeamish nature to the back of his head, and pretends he is sewing a tear in a shirt closed.

It doesn't work, and as his fingers are coated in blood, and he sews another creature's flesh together, he swallows rapidly and tries not to throw up on his neat stitches. When he is done, he hops up and pokes through the pantry for a jar of honey, before slathering it on the wound and binding it with strips of his old shirt.

He divests his charge of his many, many weapons.

Then he starts the hard part.

Bit by bit, he drags the heavy burden along his floor, down the hallway, and into one of his spare bedrooms. Once there, he tries to lift the dwarf (and really he must be a dwarf, there really isn't anything else to be, with a beard like that) onto the bed, just about managing to cushion his head when he drops him again.

He taps one large, hairy foot thoughtfully, then drags the duvet, pillows, and blankets off the bed, arranging them in a nest like fashion on the floor, and hauls the dwarf onto his creation, carefully lifting his head onto the pillows, and laying a blanket over him. After another thoughtful pause, he gathers the dwarf's weapons from the hallway, and lays them within arms reach. Then he leaves a glass of water near, and goes to scrub the blood from his floorboards.

And if he swears a lot while he does so, well, the dwarf can hardly tell anyone, can he?


	4. Chapter 4

_**Its my birthday, and I have a little while, so I figured I'd write a little bit for this. It isn't much, but it fits and ends neatly so there.**_

_**Disclaimer: c'mon, we all know who really owns the hobbit.**_

Thorin wakes up parched.

Well, he has lost a lot of blood, it's to be expected.

So he rolls over, groans when something pulls sharply in his thigh, and comes face to face with a glass of water.

Face to glass. Whatever.

Quite pleased at this unexpected turn of events, he grabs it, props himself up on the mound of blankets and pillows, and drinks the entire thing in one go.

Then he tries to get up.

Twenty minutes or so later, lying on the floor swearing loudly in Kazdhül, he concludes this is not going well. But he is a king, albeit with no kingdom, so he tries again. And is promptly shoved back down the moment his shoulders leave the pillows.

"No." He is told sternly.

He frowns in consternation at the curly haired little creature standing over him. He is small.

Thorin estimates he would barely reach his shoulder.

"What?" He manages.

Dis would scold him for his lack of manners for that, but Dis isn't here, is she?

"No." Repeats the creature. "You'll rip your stitches."

That explains the tugging sensation.

"I'm a king." He tries.

"Would you rather be a dead king?" The creature asks. Then he proceeds to bustle around the room, tidying up rapidly. "Now. Lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Yes, lunch. Traditionally the midday meal. Lunch. We're having fish." Then he leaves.

"What?" Says Thorin. His host doesn't return for another half an hour, according to the clock, which has clearly been moved so someone from the floor can see it. When he does come back, he is carrying two plates.

"Here." He passes Thorin one plate, with fish, potatoes, and vegetables. It's probably the best meal Thorin has even seen in months. Travelling hardly results in culinary prowess. Most of what he has eaten in recent time has been weak stew which he makes himself on the road side. He has finished before the curly haired creature has taken more than half a dozen bites.

He didn't realise he was so hungry.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Bilbo Baggins."

"Thorin Oakenshield. Pleasure to meet you."

Bilbo laughs.

"You're a bad liar, for a king, Mr Oakenshield. I thought kings were supposed to be good at lying?" He gathers up the plates, leaves just as quietly as he entered.

"What?"

Thorin seems to be making a habit of saying that.


End file.
